


Rite

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alien Rituals, Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Pon Farr, Self-Lubrication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 05:43:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1498801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As per tradition, Sarek helps Spock along through his first trial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rite

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “Sarek deflowering teen Spock” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/). Infinite thanks to abbeyjewel for betaing for me! ♥
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The tradition is an old one. Sarek doesn’t expect Amanda to understand and doesn’t tell her; he simply arranges for her convenient relocation. It’s very likely that she knows, having studied their culture as much as possible despite the Vulcan way of silence on certain matters, but she says nothing. As soon as Spock begins to show the early signs, Sarek schedule for Amanda’s leave to a lengthy linguist conference on Earth. As soon as they return from seeing her off, Spock’s relief is palpable.

He says quietly in the doorway of his home, “Thank you, Father,” and he attempts to leave.

Sarek reaches for his sleeve to halt him. Spock looks around, eyes slightly wider than usual, bow lips falling open; his control isn’t far enough along at the best of times, and it’ll be far worse during this ordeal. Sarek makes it clear to him: “The traditional remedy you are approaching is meant for Vulcans.” Spock winces instantly, then quickly schools his face as tight as possible. For once, Sarek doesn’t note the transgression. “I do not say this to shame you, simply to let you know that I will not hold you to it if you feel it is not right for you.”

Here, Spock’s eyes do widen. He _stares_ at Sarek thoroughly, then drops his gaze to the floor while his mouth works. He’s only just become a ‘man’, and his youthful features are so Vulcan that an outsider might never know of Spock’s mixed lineage. Provided he never spoke. But his hesitance betrays him. After a long moment, he looks up again. He looks somewhat ill. “How would my... time... be dealt with, then?”

“It is not as intense as your later trials will be. It is not fatal. Others have forgone the ancient traditions before.” Very, very few, but Sarek sees no reason to relay numbers. “Should the decision be reached early enough, diligent meditation would suffice. Or, if you prefer, it would be possible to find another candidate. One you find more... suitable.”

Spock’s mouth seems to have gone dry. He runs his tongue over his lip—a habit he _certainly_ hasn’t picked up from Sarek. He says, “Thank you, Father. But I... I do not wish for another candidate.” A pause, and he searches: “Unless you would desire me to...”

“I desire nothing of the sort.” Sarek remains impassive, but he would like to think that his son knows better than that. Simply because he’s shown disapproval of Spock’s more human traits in the past does not mean he would forgo the bond Spock’s time will give them.

...If anything, he considers himself quite fortunate. Spock, for all his flaws, is very intelligent. He is wise, in his own way, and his spirit is generally calm, thoughtful and inclined to further learning. ...And he is, undeniably, quite beautiful.

He looks at his father and nods tightly. It would be inappropriate for Sarek to show any of his desire, but a time will soon come where it belongs. In the meantime, he is a sturdy, reassuring force, and Spock takes a deep breath that seems to absorb as much.

He asks softly, “When may we begin?”

“When you are ready.”

Spock nods. Another of his mother’s inclinations. Sarek waits for him to take his leave, but he doesn’t.

He releases a breath, composes himself, and says with full confidence, “I am ready.”

“There is no need to rush.”

Spock’s cheeks darken almost imperceptibly, green warming through. He repeats, “I am ready.”

Sarek pauses. He’s considering, but mostly, he’s allowing Spock time to change his mind. This is a large, heavy undertaking, utterly normal for Vulcans, yet taboo, even vulgar to human. This is not an issue Sarek was prepared to be split on. When his own father shared the ritual with him, he never imagined he would not be able to do the same for his own child. He’s never quite reconciled with the unhelpful disappointment of his prior wife depriving him of Sybok’s trial. With Spock, a boy he’s raised and _loved_ , whether or not he’s shown it, it would be far harder. In truth, he’s looking far too forward to it. But, as a long-time ambassador to an alien world, Sarek has too much respect and understanding for others’ cultures, and if Spock did choose to forgo the entire thing, Sarek would, of course, oblige.

Spock merely repeats, barely above a whisper, “I am ready, Father.” The fading light through the window in their door casts an orange glow over the side of Spock’s face. Even though they’re alone in their expansive hallway, Spock glances behind himself, as though nervous to keep this _intimate._

It will be nothing but. Sarek, trained well enough not to let how pleased he is slip onto his face, lifts one hand. His fingers shift according, the first two held together, the third and fourth curling in. His thumb holds them down. He sees a flash of eagerness pass through Spock’s eyes, and a moment later, his son is lifting slow fingers.

They reach his and touch so very light, feather soft. Sarek presses his own back, much harder. He runs the round pads of his tips gently down the soft flesh of Spock’s hand, just barely brushing down over Spock’s palm. Spock shivers and bites his lip, and Sarek, carefully observing his son’s face, traces up and over the back.

He caresses his son’s fingers from every angle, and he asks Spock while he does so, “You are familiar with the procedure?”

The first time Spock’s mouth opens, no sound comes out. On the second try, he manages, fingers now shaking, “I read the material you gave me, Father, and I cross-referenced it with the school’s own instructions.” His words are admirably pure, but his breath is becoming short. They’ve barely even started.

“Good.” It was good of him to check with the school—though they provide all the information, it’s a parent’s job to open the discussion, and Spock did well to privately inquire more. “Then you are aware of what is expected of you.”

Spock’s eyelids are beginning to droop. His dark irises are focused down on Sarek’s ministrations, still going, a sophisticated, drawn out hand-kiss. It’s likely more skilled and thorough than anything Spock’s yet known. “I am.”

Sarek confirms all the same, “You will do your best to retain your control. You will remain obedient and unemotional. While this will counteract the symptoms of your first, half-pon farr, you will not see this as simply a means to your own pleasure. It is not a diversion. It is not a cure. It is not a test. It is an experience for you to learn from. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” But Spock looks like he might say yes to anything at this point; his eyes are fixed on Sarek’s movement, and when Sarek wraps his fingers tightly around Spock’s, Spock makes a short, sinful gasping noise. A second later, his cheeks are turning greener, and he mutters unsteadily, still held in Sarek’s unforgiving grip, “I apologize for my behaviour.”

“You need not apologize.” Spock glances up. Sarek is stern as ever, but for a moment, he allows only the tiniest, briefest flash of sympathy to show behind his eyes. His voice lowers with the gravity of his words: the last of his explanations before they truly begin. “You are different, my son. This is not a criticism; it is simply fact. You cannot expect yourself to behave perfectly, not this time. You must simply strive to _try._ ...And know that it is very rare for any Vulcan to proceed through any surge of pon farr, half or otherwise, entirely logically. This is why I am here: to guide you where you cannot go on your own. I am here.” He lets go of Spock’s fingers, but only long enough to reconfigure their grip. He opens Spock’s hand and entwines them better, allowing Sarek to tug Spock with him when he moves.

He begins to walk past Spock, down the corridor, and Spock falls quickly in line, hand warm and lightly moist with sweat in his. Spock is nervous, he knows, but so was he on his time. He considers heading to his own room; that’s the place of tradition. But it would also mean claiming their son in Amanda’s bed, and out of respect to her, he guides them to Spock’s room instead.

Spock’s room has changed little since his childhood, since Sarek set it aside and Amanda set about her decorations. The sloping, bare walls are a blur; Sarek knows every piece of his home as well as his hands, and this is no time to reevaluate their looks. All of his attention is on Spock, and he takes Spock back towards the large, curved bed, blue bedding a dark contrast to Spock’s dull grey robes. Sarek turns him until the back of his knees hit the mattress. Then Sarek’s hands withdraw, though he doesn’t step away. They’re close, very close, and in that proximity, Sarek orders to the ceiling, “Lights, forty-five percent.” The curtains are already drawn, and the illumination sinks, after flaring on their arrival, to something more relaxing. Spock doesn’t relax. If anything, his mouth almost twitches in excitement. It’s going to happen. Now.

“Remove your clothing.”

Spock instantly moves to obey. At first, it’s a lurch, then an effort to slow, to be graceful. He pulls his tunic over his head, ruffling his otherwise perfect, sleek hair, and he folds it appropriately, holding it in his arms. Sarek inclines his head towards the floor, and Spock kneels to place his clothing there. The undershirt that’s left is thin and white, and Spock pulls it over his head just as neatly, revealing the expanse of his pale, toned chest, his flat stomach and his lithe sides. His body is reaching the end of its development, or at least, towards the adult stage. He’s thin and light but well defined, and Sarek nods once in a show of approval—Spock risks another smile. Then he’s undoing his pants, and he hesitantly glances up at Sarek before hooking both thumbs in his waistband.

He pushes down his pants and his underwear at once, scrunching down the fabric and stepping out, and he straightens again, pulling up to full height, body taut and ready. Sarek’s eyes are still tracing the lines of it all, stalling particularly long on his son’s hips and the prize they hold between them. Spock’s legs are strong, and his crotch is thickly dusted in dark hair, a mat above his long, proud cock. It’s a worthy size, an attractive shape, and it twitches once under his gaze. When he looks back to Spock’s face, Spock’s cheeks are greener than ever, though he wisely says nothing.

Sarek breaks the silence himself to say, “You have developed well, my son.” He refrains from truly outlining Spock’s beauty, although it’s an undeniable fact. Sarek is lucky.

Spock barely stifles his grin when he replies, “Thank you, Father.”

“Lay back on the bed.” As he says it, Sarek puts a hand on Spock’s shoulder and guides him down, until his knees buckle and he’s resting atop the blankets. He’s made his bed since he was old enough to reach. He’s a good boy.

He shuffles back on his elbows until his head lands in the pillows and he’s stretched out along the bed properly. Sarek takes a moment to simply admire the picturesque view before him, and then he proceeds.

He unclips his cape and lets it slide to the floor, and he pulls loose the clasps all down his tunic. His eyes remain on Spock’s face, never wavering, though Spock is nearly _gaping_ , staring unabashedly at his father’s body. Sarek reveals each patch of skin slowly, not in an intimate dance but simply the pragmatic system of undressing. His robes part and fall from him, and he unclasps the seal of his pants. They slink down, his undergarments falling with them, and then Sarek is left as bare as his offspring, naked in the room’s low light. Spock’s breath hitches, and before Sarek can move, Spock blurts, “You are so _handsome_...” And then he remembers himself and blushes, murmuring a soft, “Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” As Sarek places a knee onto the bed, he allows only the smallest, briefest smile: a pleased reaction to soothe his half-human son’s clearly frail nerves. “It is good that you appreciate the body that made you.” Another knee, and he’s climbing on.

He descends over Spock like a hunting bird, and Spock’s lids lower in the shadow that covers him. Sarek steadies himself with one hand to either side of Spock’s face, while Spock’s arms stay stiffly at his sides. Knees now bracketing Spock’s hips, Sarek lowers himself until they’re pressed together, thighs first, then crotch—Spock bites his lip and twitches but fortunately doesn’t buck. That would be unacceptable. Sarek smoothes them together, chest to chest, legs entwining, his own ankles hooked around Spock’s and pinning them to the mattress. One set of Sarek’s fingers brushes back through Spock’s dark hair—silky soft, just as he knew it would be. Spock leans into the touch, and Sarek presses a fleeting, chaste kiss to the side of Spock’s face.

Then he leans their foreheads together, his hand holding Spock’s head firmly still, and his eyes close. He knows Spock will see and do the same. This is a moment just to _take it in_ , to get used to the feeling of Spock’s body, all of it at once. Spock’s skin is prickling with warmth, lightly furred in some places but mostly smooth and pale. Sarek schools his breathing very even, but he can feel Spock’s wafting over him, just a fraction too erratic.

Spock whispers hesitantly, perhaps wary of breaking the silence, “What shall I do with my arms?”

Sarek tucks a lock of hair behind Spock’s ear and answers, “You will follow my lead.” This is not something that can be expressed entirely in spoken instructions. For the meaning to hold, Spock must give himself to the process, must embrace it, must learn and participate as an equal, for that is precisely what this trial makes him. He’s becoming a man, and he must use that responsibility. Sarek opens his eyes and gives Spock’s other cheek a familiar peck, then begins his way down Spock’s body.

Like a coordinated dance, Sarek’s hands come together on Spock’s throat. That is where they start, mapping out the contours and feeling the tremours of Spock’s breath. He drifts down Spock’s shoulders, noting the strength of the curve—Spock’s biceps are admirable. So is most of him. Sarek traces slow lines down Spock’s arms, straight down to the backs of Spock’s hands, and then he swerves around and into Spock’s palms, fingering the ticklish skin until Spock shivers and shifts. Spock’s reactions aren’t quite what he expected—they come from no experience. There’s a part of him that’s pleased with that; it means that his son’s first time is truly his to share, and no matter who else may come along, Sarek will always have that spot in his son’s life, just as his father has in his. He doesn’t need to ask if this lack of knowledge is true—he’ll know soon enough.

But before he reaches Spock’s mind, he must acquaint himself with Spock’s body, and his hands ghost down Spock’s sides. He cups Spock’s trim waist and holds Spock tight against him, while Spock, very slowly, begins to come undone. His arms drift from his sides, hands lifting to the air, and then wrap around Sarek’s body. Sarek waits while they touch him, just lightly, then harder, pressing in, wrapping around him, until the two men are locked in a stifling embrace. Sarek lets Spock finish first, moving instead to run trembling palms up and down Sarek’s chest. Spock’s fingers brush Sarek’s nipples, and he glances up almost fearfully, but Sarek’s only reaction is a third kiss. Spock lets out a stifled moan and rolls his hips toward Sarek. It brushes their hard shafts together, and Sarek can’t stop his own grunt from spilling out.

It’s going to be very difficult to be objective in this, he realizes. When he examines his memories, his own father was so very respectful, Vulcan to the point of being professional, even in his bed. But Sarek knows that he was not the temptress Spock is; he didn’t moan so wantonly, or writhe so alluringly, or simply look so beautiful. Spock is now staring at Sarek’s nipples with a look of sheer fascination as he plucks them between his fingers, and Sarek, wanting to regain that attention, grinds their hips together. Spock instantly gasps and replaces his arms around Sarek’s shoulders, holding on for the ride.

Sarek has to push him back down—keep his head in the pillows. There, Sarek can splay one hand across his face, hitting all the meld points. This contact will only be necessary for the first moment, and he wants Spock’s skull safely cradled—it’s a shock, at first, to be rushed into. Spock clearly knows the gesture, though, and he looks up at Sarek with big, dark eyes. “You are going to...?”

“I am going to put myself inside you,” Sarek confirms. He doesn’t move right away; he’s simply establishing contact and getting ready. He’s trying to give Spock a moment to adjust. “But first I will be in your mind, and I will help you to open yourself for me...”

“I read about that in school,” Spock mumbles. “A long time ago.” Then his cheeks darken, as though he’s said too much. Sarek nods. It will have been taught in school, as it’s important—preparation is always important. When Spock is older, he’ll learn that different aliens are different—many will require intense stretching and outside sources of lubrication. Humans, unfortunately, fall into that category, and Sarek does wonder if Spock’s body will prepare itself the Vulcan way, but then he tells himself it must. Spock’s body _is_ Vulcan; that much is undeniable. But if this doesn’t work, they’ll find a solution. It’s not impossible.

When Sarek is fully ready to pervade Spock’s self, he asks, “Will you have me in your mind?”

Spock nods once, and when his chin touches his chest, he recites, “I am obedient and unemotional.” But his breath is too quick to properly sell the notion, and his cock twitches against Sarek’s in what he can only assume to be excitement. Sarek is mildly proud, and he doesn’t dare move his hips too much in case of disrupting that; perhaps he should’ve positioned himself to do this _before_ grinding their crotches together. He can already feel Spock’s pubic hair tickling his shaft, Spock’s lightly fuzzed balls resting against his, and Spock’s thighs fighting to remain still beneath his own. No, he shouldn’t have waited, actually. He should be preparing. His free hand slips down Spock’s waist, and he guides one leg aside.

Spock, eyes glinting in anticipation, spreads his legs for his father. They part around Sarek’s waist, knees bending as his feet slide up to brace him. Sarek reaches around Spock’s thigh, slipping along the round curve of Spock’s ass, and it’s his turn to repress his response. A part of him wants to roll Spock over, to appreciate Spock’s ass properly, but the rest of him knows that it’s important for them to be face to face. Instead, he feels what he can with his hand, and when he’s had his fill, he runs his thumb between Spock’s cheeks and comes to rest on Spock’s tiny, puckered hole. It’s dry and quivering beneath him, but he rubs it soothingly and knows he’ll be able to coax it wider. He repeats, “Will you have me?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Spock insists. “I want you to claim me.” There isn’t a single note of uncertainty on his face, but Sarek will know the full extent soon enough. For now, it’s simply the mind meld he needs permission for, and clearly Spock’s given it.

So Sarek presses his fingertips against his son’s face, and he gently ebbs through them, taking their minds to one.

Spock’s control drops, his body lax, and his lips part as Sarek rolls into him, slow and steady, but still another _force_ in Spock’s _head_. Spock takes it so well. His body arches up, breath catching, eyes wide but unseeing; the place the both of them are looking doesn’t exist on any plane the naked eye can see. Sarek carefully opens Spock’s mind like a flower, bending each petal back to soak in the light. He’s falling down into that open garden, and Spock’s falling with him, and he holds Spock tightly through the bond between them, all reassurance—this is a step they take together. He permeates every part of Spock there is to feel, until he’s inside of every one of Spock’s breaths. He’s in Spock’s lungs, in Spock’s heart, and he sits in Spock’s head and sees Spock’s bristling _want_ for this, for all of this, to have Sarek truly _love_ him. Sarek finds that desperate child and tells him that of course he’s loved; a Vulcan may not say it aloud, but their children should know. Spock’s afraid. He doesn’t think he’ll be good enough—he thinks he’ll be too tight to take Sarek’s manhood or his body won’t react properly, won’t open him, or that he’ll cry. He’ll be too _needy_. Sarek soothes Spock the best he can.

Sarek wraps Spock up in the thick blankets of his trust, and he holds a shivering figment of his son in his lap, and he explains that everything is going to be alright. This isn’t a test. This isn’t something Spock can fail. This is a private little ritual, and no one outside the two of them will ever know what happens within their intimacy. Regardless of what other differences may arise between them, right here, right now, there is no wrong that Spock can do. Spock reaches back in gratitude and tears of relief, and Sarek lets his child into his mind, lets Spock see and feel and take Sarek’s strength. Sarek is a sturdy mountain amidst the _pon farr_ ’s storm, and Spock clings to him, growing braver and braver in that shelter.

By the time Sarek eases them both into their own bodies, Spock’s hands are on the back of Sarek’s neck, holding Sarek down against him. Sarek brushes a soft, barely-there kiss to Spock’s lips, and Spock, moaning, arches back up to comply.

Spock will open for him. Sarek knows that. He brushes Spock’s cheek and kisses Spock’s mouth, a little hard, then much harder, shifting to the side to melt into Spock’s lips. As soon as his tongue brushes over Spock’s seam, they open instantly, and Sarek’s diving in to lap at Spock’s teeth, the roof of Spock’s mouth, the eager tongue that comes out to meet him. Through their steadfast connection, Sarek whispers into Spock’s mind, _You must stretch for me..._

 _I will, Father,_ Spock promises, his voice surprisingly strong—his mental abilities have always been strong. _I will do anything you ask..._

 _You must stretch yourself,_ Sarek repeats. It’s easier like this, his mouth busy but his mind free, left to taste Spock properly. He runs his tongue around Spock’s plush bottom lip and uses his mind to show Spock images, to let Spock feel how, to explain, _You must be open enough, wet enough to take me inside you. I will not hurt you. You will only be able to have me if you do this; if your body welcomes me inside..._

 _It does, it does, please,_ Spock groans, the message tinged with need even like this. As Sarek guides, his thumb presses against Spock’s hole, and sure enough, a bead of slick liquid forms to meet it—he taps and rubs and presses harder to encourage more. Spock moans into his mouth and jerks his hips, following quickly: _Sorry, sorry, oh... Father, Father, please, I want you inside me..._

 _Soon,_ Sarek promises. He smears around more and more natural lubrication, until it’s enough for his thumb to pop inside, swallowed quickly in the tightness and heat. He slowly pushes his way to the knuckle, and he coaxes his son, _You are being very good, Spock. But you must continue to open yourself for me. My size is very large; I do not wish to hurt you._

Spock shudders, and it’s working; Sarek can feel the tight channel loosening around his thumb. After he can move freely in and out, Sarek moves on to two fingers, scissoring Spock’s asshole apart to aid the process. Spock gasps in clear delight, and a burst of pleasure sparks through the bond; Sarek can _feel_ Spock’s desire to have more of him.

He breaks their session to peck Spock’s nose and rest their foreheads together, and he slips his fingers out, wiping the sticky mess off on Spock’s thigh. Spock, impatient and very much aroused, simply keeps his legs as spread as possible; he must know that Sarek is about to take him. Sarek takes his own cock in his hand and moves into position.

He doesn’t need to ask again if this is what Spock wants. Desire is pulsing through the bond, greater than anything Sarek’s felt in a long, long time. It should, perhaps, disturb him that his son is so eager to take his cock, but if anything, it only makes it easier. Sarek keeps their faces together as his tip breaches Spock’s entrance, and his mouth opens to swallow Spock’s gasp.

Then he’s pushing inside, kissing Spock fully to take any pain, but he doesn’t need to; Spock is soaking wet for him, and Spock’s walls suck him right inside, pulse hot around him, warm as an inferno. It’s tight, very _tight_ , but there is no pain; he can sense every part of Spock’s body, and there’s only willingness, only pleasure. Sarek worried that, perhaps, there would only be one spot to touch for Spock—the way it is with humans. But this is proving just how very _Vulcan_ Spock’s body is; he seems to derive little pockets of ecstasy from everything Sarek touches. Encasing Sarek’s girth gives Spock joy, holding Sarek further gives Spock joy, rippling around the pulsing veins of Sarek’s cock makes Spock shiver. Spock’s kisses have dropped into sloppy, mindless things, and Sarek understands, Sarek guides—he can feel his son getting overwhelmed. He knows the sensation. Spock’s body feels _perfect_ around him.

 _Do you see?_ he purrs to his temporary mate, while he slowly slides his way as deep as he can be. He doesn’t dare go too quickly, and he wants to savour this—but he needs to be in Spock as much as he can. _Your body was built to take mine; your entrance is fit just for me._

For a moment, Spock’s only response is strangled sounds, and then he groans, _Will anyone else ever fit me the way you do?_

And Sarek doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t know. It’s unlikely, he thinks. There will be good fits, good feelings. But Spock is _made_ from Sarek, and he’s grown just for that. This is a very special thing between two Vulcans, and these rituals are not so easy to match.

Sarek finally sinks balls-deep, as far as he can possibly be, and his hips still, eyelids lowering as his own moan catches and stays in his throat. Spock feels _so unbelievably good._ Impossibly sweet. Spock’s hands have slipped to Sarek’s shoulders, blunt fingertips digging into his skin. Spock breaks their lips apart and mumbles weakly, “I feel... very full. Complete.”

“You are complete when you are in my arms.”

Spock doesn’t say it, but Sarek _knows_ that Spock wishes that circumstance occurred more often. Embraces between them. Sarek doesn’t say anything, because he can’t change the frequencies of traditions. This is the way it is, and for now, they must simply focus on today. He begins to pull himself half out of Spock’s body, and Spock’s teeth grit together.

Sarek slams back inside, and Spock cries out, quiet but still too loud, and he licks his lips and quickly mutters, “Sorry.” Sarek soothes him instantly through the bond; this is not meant as a way to achieve _kolinahr_ , simply a place to try to learn, to step into the next seven years with that effort. All things considered, Spock is doing very well.

On the next thrust, Spock is silent, but his arms wrap around Sarek’s back, hands scrabbling at his shoulder blades. Sarek doesn’t pause for it, couldn’t if he wanted to; the rhythm’s begun. He’s half out and then he’s in again, shoving Spock down. Spock’s legs quiver and wrap around him, heels digging into the small of his back, and Sarek lets his son cling to him, simply continues to pound his beloved son into the bed. He isn’t sweet in his pace, however cute, however pretty, Spock and his adoration might seem to be. Sarek is a man of force, and he counters _pon farr_ with the brutality of ancient times; the sort that _requires_ Spock to hold on for dear life. Sarek tests the strength of the Vulcan bed—made for such a pounding—and already it begins to creak and groan with each new thrust. A few more and it’s slapping into the wall: another violent sound to mix with the thick stench of sex and the whimpers Spock can’t seem to hold back. Spock tries to kiss him, and Sarek rushes into Spock’s head with the guidance, the strength to find a lover’s mouth through the dark. Then their teeth and tongue are just as violent as their hips, and though Spock is all at Sarek’s mercy, he rivals back with tremendous force: more passion for their fire.

As soon as Sarek breaks the kiss to mark Spock’s face and neck, Spock loses all control. He gasps and he howls, arching up as Sarek sinks his teeth into Spock’s throat, branding in a bruise that a very, very long time ago, let the entire tribe know that a son was _claimed_. Racial instinct drives Sarek to _mark_ his things, and Spock is, in the eyes of Vulcan, irrevocably _his_. He will, of course, have to remove it all before his wife returns, or at least cover it up—such makeup is more than readily available. She will not appreciate the reminder of Vulcan traditions, not in this. For now, Sarek simply focuses on staking his claim, and Spock responds beautifully, trying to push himself further into his father’s arms and moaning over each new lick. One of his hands reaches the back of Sarek’s head and threads through Sarek’s hair, the other tracing down Sarek’s spine, and Spock even has the tenacity to squeeze one cheek of Sarek’s ass. Sarek simply keeps up his merciless pace; he’s making them both bounce off the mattress with every round.

 _I love you, Father,_ Spock thinks, and even as it slips through, Sarek knows that his son regrets the slip, thinks of it as more weakness and some dark, twisted secret to be bottled deep inside. Sarek finishes a set of green teeth marks under Spock’s jaw and returns to tug at Spock’s mouth: proof of his approval.

Sarek has difficulty returning the same sentiment, but he repeats, lightly and three times, _You are loved._ He knows that Spock understands. When their mind and bodies and souls are intertwined like this, it’s impossible for him not to.

He holds Sarek together in response, and he kisses Sarek desperately. His tight channel squeezes and pulses around Sarek’s cock and he sucks on Sarek’s tongue and his hands are now roaming Sarek’s body, his mind bursting with appreciation, with utter adoration, with love so overwhelming that it makes it difficult for even Sarek’s floodgates to stay closed. Any thought of this being a test is long out the window. Now it’s simply the two of them, stripped down to their purest forms, joined so completely, and Sarek cradles Spock’s head in his hands and knows they’re getting close, very close.

He gives Spock the privilege of coming first, and Spock immediately bursts with the silent permission. He screams into Sarek’s mouth, arching wildly and clawing at Sarek’s back deep enough to leave marks, and his cock, untouched and nonetheless rock hard, explodes between them. Sarek doesn’t need to help him; if he had touched Spock at any point, he knows they wouldn’t have even made it this long. Now Spock is shuddering and nearly crying and slicking both their stomachs with boiling cum, spilling an obscene amount. A spark of pride instantly forms in Sarek’s chest—his child is _very_ virile. Spock’s orgasm seems to last forever, and while it happens, Sarek can’t stay in Spock’s head—it’s too explosive, too wrapped in its own rapture. Sarek simply continues his own movements, until the feeling of his son’s body convulsing around him is too much to handle.

Then he’s filling Spock up with the seed that made him: an ever more impressive load that threatens to rip Spock’s insides apart. Sarek has to pull himself half out just to have the room, and even then, he can feel it mixing with Spock’s own juices and slipping out around his cock. He continues to pump himself inside all the same, and he lets his bliss course through him, all of his enjoyment spilling down into his lover.

When he’s finally finished, and they’re both sticky and panting, Sarek takes another moment to savour the magnificence, the exquisite feeling, the knowledge that Spock’s insides are soaked in his seed. Spock looks up at him with such debauched beauty that it takes Sarek’s breath away, and he can feel a little push through the bond: a weak thing to test if it’s still there.

 _It will linger until morning,_ Sarek assures. He can feel the struggle in Spock to ask if it can stay, but that’s not how things are done.

Sarek pulls himself out, dragging lubrication and cum with him, and Spock makes a heady moaning noise, hips lifting off the bed as though to lure Sarek back. Sarek has to push them back down, and he strokes his son’s wet thigh, announcing in clear approval, “You did well, my son.” Spock’s attempt to stifle his smile is unsuccessful, but given his current condition, the failure is acceptable.

“I read...” Spock pauses, averting his eyes as though embarrassed, but his face is too flushed and sweat-slicked for it to show any more shame. “I believe I read that I am to... keep it inside me. So that my body may absorb it and use it to strengthen me.” His eyes flicker back, and he implores, “Is this true?”

It’s said. But that comes from the tradition, and it’s never been scientifically proven. Sarek opts for a neutral, “You may clean yourself of the mess, or you may allow it to sit in you, if you wish.”

Spock nods and nearly whispers, “I will keep it in.” Then he reaches out a hand, and Sarek, busy taking in Spock’s used body, takes it. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

That is not tradition. It’s not forbidden, but it’s not required. The decision is on the parent, and Sarek, helped along by the sight in front of him, allows his affinity for the idea to slip into Spock’s mind. As Spock hurriedly sits, Sarek turns and follows.

Together, they slip beneath the stained blankets, deep below the sheets, leaving showers and cleaning for tomorrow. It’s late, and with how satisfied Sarek is, he imagines the most appropriate course is rest. They settle down in their cocoon, Sarek on his back and spread out as he always is, while Spock, who hasn’t slept with Sarek since he was a small child and Amanda insisted, curls up to his side. Spock doesn’t cling, but he is closer than any other time would allow. Sarek allows his son to use his shoulder as a pillow, allows their bodies to be too close. Before he can order the lights down, Spock mumbles quietly, “I wish you could just be my bondmate.” Sarek, mildly surprised, probes at Spock’s mind, and finds only sincerity behind the statement.

But as he tells Spock: “That is not how things are done.”

Spock murmurs, “I know.” But his desire doesn’t lesson.

He’s happy, all the same. He’s spent and content, and his first _pon farr_ has been tamed, and the bond between them has strengthened, will remain strong, even as Spock’s career takes him out of his father’s home. Though Sarek would’ve respected Spock’s choice to decline the pure-Vulcan tradition, he finds himself relieved that Spock didn’t. Now he keeps his mind smooth and peaceful, providing that shield for Spock’s younger turmoil to ebb away against. Sarek tells the computer, “Lights off.”

The room is plunged into darkness, and in very little time, Spock falls asleep in Sarek’s arms.


End file.
